The FAWS workshop was alive with motion. Technicians hurried between calibration tables, sparks spat from cutting torches, and the smell of heated alloy clung thick in the air. Above it all, the intercom replayed the emergency directive from Command:
> "Infantry casualties rising. Ammunition inefficiency unsustainable. FAWS has seventy-two hours to present a working prototype solution. Failure is not an option."
The message echoed through every corridor. The weight of it pressed down on every man and woman in the department. Seventy-two hours. Three days to change the course of a war that had raged for thirty years.
Sirius Blake stood at his workbench, still clutching the too-small micro-mag and the stubbornly incompatible rifle. His grin from earlier had faded, replaced by something sharper, quieter. His fingers tapped against the steel surface in a quick rhythm, as though keeping time with an invisible clock.
"ARI," he whispered, eyes narrowing, "what are they talking about? Seventy-two hours to show a prototype? Do they really think—"
> "Correction," ARI interrupted smoothly. "Command has given FAWS seventy-two hours to provide a proof-of-concept solution to the infantry's ammunition crisis. Current battlefield data projects casualty rates will double if no improvement is made. Request: compute time required for retrofit project."
Sirius blinked, his hand pausing mid-tap. "Then compute. Tell me how long."
There was a faint hum in his mind as ARI ran her numbers. Dozens of calculations flickered across his mental overlay: barrel dimensions, receiver wells, micro-mag tolerances, weight distribution, stress fractures, coil reinforcement. The sheer complexity of it nearly overwhelmed him, but ARI's voice cut through with calm finality.
> "Time required to retrofit all standard-issue light weapons across the FAWS inventory: ninety-four hours."
Sirius froze. His jaw tightened. "Ninety-four?"
> "Confirmed. Retrofit operations include disassembly, machining, chamber adjustment, recalibration, and reassembly. With current manpower, ninety-four hours minimum."
For a long moment, Sirius said nothing. The noise of the workshop faded into the background. Ninety-four hours meant they were already out of time. If they worked at their current pace, the prototype wouldn't be ready before Command's deadline.
Then Sirius' lips pulled back into a grin—not the easy, joking one his colleagues were used to, but a sharper, hungrier smile. He leaned forward over his workbench, eyes locked onto the rifle in front of him like it was prey.
"Then we make it in seventy-two."
---
Without another word, Sirius began tearing the weapon apart. His hands moved with uncharacteristic speed, every motion precise. Bolts clattered, chambers popped free, springs snapped under the pressure of his tools. Where normally he might hum or crack a joke, this time he worked in silence.
Other FAWS technicians looked up from their benches, startled. Sirius' face, normally relaxed, playful, even mischievous, was set in a hard mask of focus. His brow furrowed, his eyes sharp, his jaw clenched. It was a face they had never seen before.
"Is… is that Blake?" one whispered to a colleague.
"He's not even laughing," another said, half-nervous, half-intrigued. "Maybe it's because of the mission we were given?"
"Maybe," came the uncertain reply. "I don't know. But he looks… different."
Across the bay, more heads turned. Whispers spread quickly. The man they'd called eccentric, the one who joked with rifles and laughed at failure, was suddenly the most serious person in the room.
One of the junior techs chuckled nervously, shaking his head. "Renegade Blake, huh? Guess he's living up to it."
---
Chief Engineer Loras entered the workshop then, his boots striking the deck with sharp authority. His eyes scanned the room, settling quickly on Sirius.
The young man was hunched over his bench, sweat dripping down his temple as he shaved a fraction of a millimeter from a rifle's receiver well, his movements steady and sure. His expression was deadly serious, lips moving faintly as if muttering to himself—or to the invisible AI guiding him.
Loras stopped, arms crossed, watching. He had seen Sirius laugh at failure, grin at chaos, even joke in the middle of an ambush. But this? This was different. This was a young man wrestling with the impossible, and refusing to blink.
Finally, Loras nodded once, grim satisfaction tugging at his mouth. "You're our only hope, Blake." His voice carried across the workshop, silencing the whispers. Then, softer, almost amused: "Or should I say… Renegade Blake."
A ripple of chuckles spread through the bay. But this time, Sirius didn't react with a smirk or a witty retort. He didn't even look up. His hands kept moving, the sound of tools clicking against steel louder than the laughter around him.
---
Inside his mind, ARI projected streams of data across Sirius' vision:
> "Receiver chamber adjusted: 12%. Compatibility with micro-mag: 42%. Time remaining until Command deadline: seventy-one hours, fifty-four minutes."
"Good," Sirius muttered. "We'll get it done."
> "Probability of full retrofit completion in seventy-two hours: 27%."
"Then we'll beat the odds." His grin returned, but it wasn't playful. It was sharp. Dangerous. Determined.
---
Hours passed. Tools rang, weapons clattered, sweat dripped. The other FAWS technicians, inspired by Sirius' sudden intensity, threw themselves harder into their own work. Some laughed nervously as they glanced at him, others exchanged worried looks, but none could deny—something about his focus was contagious.
Every time a bolt slipped into place, every time a mag clicked against a newly widened receiver, Sirius chuckled low in his throat. Not his usual manic giggle, but a darker, steadier laugh. The laugh of a man who saw the impossible and dared to wrestle it into submission.
Across the workshop, one technician muttered, "Maybe he really can do it."
Another replied softly, "If anyone can, it's him."
---
Meanwhile, on the frontlines, Sirius' friends fought on with weapons that were failing them. Jinx cursed as he slammed a mag home, Hivebugs closing fast. Stone's cannon overheated mid-burst, forcing him to fall back. Whisper's medkit ran dry as she tried to stem a soldier's bleeding. Sparks' optics flickered with interference. Bear strained under the weight of hauling another malfunctioning turret into place. Shade's calm voice reported over comms: "Last mag. Make it count."
Every reload was a risk. Every wasted second cost lives.
Back in FAWS, Sirius didn't know exactly where his friends were or how close to death they'd come that day. But deep in his bones, he felt it. The war was squeezing them all, and this project—this retrofit—was the only shield he could give them.
---
As the workshop dimmed into late hours, Sirius slammed the modified mag into the adjusted rifle. This time it held. Snug. Secure. He exhaled slowly, then looked to ARI.
"Log it. Prototype one."
> "Prototype logged. Estimated time to retrofit all units: seventy-one hours, twelve minutes. Deadline: seventy-two hours. Probability of success: increasing."
Sirius grinned again, sweat streaking his face. "Then let's not waste a second."
Chief Engineer Loras, still watching from the shadows, allowed himself a rare chuckle. "Renegade Blake… if you pull this off, Command won't know whether to promote you or lock you up."
The workshop erupted in nervous laughter. But Sirius? He just kept working, tools ringing, eyes burning, determined to wrestle ninety-four hours of labor into seventy-two.
Because if he failed, men and women on the frontlines—his friends—wouldn't live to see another sunrise.